


Seasons Are Changing

by summerstorm



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/M, First Time, Teacher-Student Relationship, virginity/celibacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-29
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<em>Easy</em>," he says, palms bracketing her elbows before she can get at his belt buckle. "No rush, Aria."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seasons Are Changing

**Author's Note:**

> Post-1.10. For the kink-bingo prompt virginity/celibacy. Title from Tristan Prettyman.

" _Easy_ ," he says, palms bracketing her elbows before she can get at his belt buckle. "No rush, Aria."

"That's easy for you to say," she snaps. Half the words come out as a whisper, and the other half are barely hissing sounds. It sounds stupid and immature, but he's _tormenting_ her. He's teasing and taunting and he doesn't even realize it.

This was so much easier before he said yes.

Before that, there was a wall Aria was very much aware of—a thin, see-through glass wall, but a wall all the same, one without doors or windows or air ducts to crawl through to the other side. It was there the day they met, more on her end than his, barely paper, but it became firm and solid and real somewhere around the time he realized she was sixteen and his student. It's a mutual thing, now, really: unspoken rule #1 in their relationship appears to be _thou shall not come into contact with skin that's kept covered in public_ , and the fact that it's an unspoken rule means they both smartly inferred it from the situation, so. Mutual.

Okay, actually that rule went out the window last week, when they were making out against the door and Aria slipped her hands down the back of Ezra's pants, completely unaware that he wasn't wearing any underwear. Ezra's not really the kind of person Aria would expect that from, because he is not, so it was a perfectly understandable accident, even after she kept her hands right where they were until Ezra remembered they shouldn't be there and cooled things all the way down by sending her home.

Of course, three days later she did the same thing, only he was wearing underwear, so touching his ass wasn't an accident. And he _let_ her. He shook his head and said, "Fine, but no sex. Not until you're out of high school. I'm serious," and palmed her breasts over her shirt. She has a light suspicion he did it to scare her, to make her realize she wasn't ready, but it didn't work at all. She was a little surprised at first, but being a virgin didn't actually mean nobody'd ever felt her up before, and the newness of Ezra doing it, the fact that she just knew Ezra wanted their relationship to remain pure even more than he wanted her, the way she could practically hear the engines in his head roar when she arched up into it, and then when he ran his thumb along the strap of her bra and didn't let it shift an inch out of sheer stubbornness—it made it impossible not to want more. The idea of wearing down his self-sacrificing, overly responsible resolve was enough to carry her through three orgasms when she got home that night.

That's kind of what got them here, actually: ever since the whole New York debacle, he's gotten into this habit of talking about their relationship, being upfront about everything, and earlier tonight she mentioned it was nice every now and then to know the no-sex thing was about principles and not an issue of not wanting her.

Ezra frowned. "When do you ever think it's about that?"

"I—okay, can I say something without you cutting me off and giving me a speech on what a terrible idea it would be for us to have sex?"

"Uh," Ezra said, "do I really—"

"Because I already know it is," Aria added. "And why. All the whys."

"Then, yeah, go ahead," Ezra said, mouth settling into a wary line.

"Okay," said Aria, "here's the thing: I spend a lot of time here. Hours at a time. Every time I come over for dinner, I spend all evening here. Sometimes I do _homework_ here."

"Don't remind me," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Sometimes I take naps in your bed. With you. We couldn't look more suspicious if we tried, and sometimes I seriously wonder, why don't we try? Even if someone knows I'm here, they're not going to know what we're doing, they're just going to _assume_ , so what's the difference? Either way we'd have to lie. Besides, the other day I reached a point where I understood guys' thing for being girls' firsts, just because you're so set on—so determined to keep us PG I just want to rip your clothes off and make you let yourself want me. It's kinda weirding me out."

There was a sharp, long intake of air—it might have been her, Aria realizes, after her little speech, but it felt distant and it would make sense if it had been Ezra, particularly because after that, careful not to even so much as see Aria's thigh, he pushed one of her knees off the bed until she got the message and stood up, stopped straddling him. Then, he said, "Maybe we should go back to the living room."

"Yeah," Aria said, turning around.

"Why did you—" Ezra said behind her, as she walked out, and she heard the door close on his question.

She looked back for a second, in the interest of honesty. "Full disclosure."

They put on a movie, and he got over his freakout about twenty minutes in—or, at least he held her hand over his lap, which seemed to be his way of apologizing when he didn't mean to stop standing his ground. Aria got that. Disagreeing like adults was a lot better than the whole _I know what's best for you_ shtick Ezra had favored for some reason at one point. Aria could handle disagreement when she got to stand her ground, too.

That was what it was, in a way, when she disentangled her fingers from his and squeezed his knee, trailed her hand up his thigh until he was actively fighting to keep his gaze blank and on the screen. She stopped watching the movie altogether and followed the fractional motion of her hand with her eyes, watched the fabric of his jeans wrinkle around her thumb and, almost unnoticeably at first, stretch near her knuckles, over his hardening cock. His thigh seized up under her hand, like he was making an inhuman effort not to react to her touch, to maintain his composure and his body in check.

Too late, Aria thought, and cupped his cock through his jeans. His breath caught in his throat for a split second, but he kept his hands unnaturally firm on the couch. She felt his eyes on her now, though—it was weird, and she wouldn't swear he was watching her, but it definitely felt that way—and she took the fact that he hadn't run off yet as permission to squeeze a little, feel him out.

He let out a loud, strangled moan, and her eyes snapped up to face him.

"Okay, fine," he said, rushed and sounding like a begrudging surrender.

"What?"

Ezra's face fell into a pleading grimace. He said, "Don't make me say it," and Aria knelt up on the couch to kiss him, and the wall that had kept her from letting _want_ take over her vanished at the exact moment Ezra's hand slid up her shirt.

And now they're here, and she can't slow down, she can't let him pull away and ask if she's sure every two minutes, because there's no wall, and her body knows it, and she feels like she's going to die if she has to wait.

"I'll start without you," Aria pokes, and what's meant to be an empty threat turns out to be more of a warning, because once she squeezes her thigh she can't help trailing her hand up and pressing her extended fingers against the crotch of her shorts.

She doesn't even notice her eyes have followed the motion until she unexpectedly meets his gaze again. And that's self-consciousness kicking in right there, fuck. Her hand stills, and she chokes back a whine as she slides it down to her knee, trying to tone things down.

Of course it's not going to shock him if she touches herself — she's sure he must have seen a girl do that before, probably more than once, and probably with a lot less clothes on than she's wearing right now — and she doesn't care about comparing to them, but she does care about something, and she cares about it enough for her cheeks to flush with heat as he watches her squeeze her breasts through the padding of her bra.

"Just let me—" she says, palming his bare stomach as she lunges forward to capture his mouth in another kiss. She figures that's safe territory, the one thing he's never asked her if she's sure about, not in a way that was about the kissing rather than the general concept of their relationship. She flings a leg over his lap, resting her weight on her knees, and tries not to do anything beyond this, beyond kissing, until he does, at least for a while, until she figures out what exactly makes him uncomfortable. If he thinks she's going fast to hide her own discomfort and sundry insecurities, she can probably disabuse him of that notion. If it's something else, like that it weirds him out to let a girl take charge, they may have a problem. Or a long conversation ahead of them, which is so not what she's in the mood for right now.

She's considering moving her weight from her knees to his thighs, fuck keeping a temporary distance, when he drags the straps of her bra over her shoulders, down until she bends her elbows through them and gets the straps off. She reaches back to unclasp her bra, but he intercepts that movement, too.

"Don't you want it off?" she asks.

"No," he says, and she's ready to make it crystal clear that she's perfectly okay with giving him access to her tits when he tugs one of the bra cups just low enough for her nipple to pop out, low enough to thumb at it and then twist it hard and determined in a way that makes her forget what she wanted to complain about. He adds, "Can you keep it on?"

"Oh," she says, "oh. Sure."

"I mean, if it's uncomfortable or—I don't mind taking it off," he says. He manages to make it sound like he truly wants her to wear her bra through this for reasons that have nothing to do with chastity and responsibility and shit, like he just likes that. It's unsettling until she looks down and realizes her other nipple's half covered, half not, and there's something absolutely thrilling about being almost naked, almost exposed.

"No, it's fine," Aria says, and uses the momentary distraction to undo his belt and fly without getting lectured on 'taking it easy.' It doesn't come even after she slides her hand into his pants, either, and touches his dick over his boxers. That's not entirely new, either—she's given a couple of handjobs before—but it's _Ezra_ , and she feels a little embarrassed all of a sudden, no matter how determinedly she tells herself it's stupid, that he's hard for her, so hard for her, and he should know better than to expect a mindblowing first time with her, because that's just not how first times usually go.

She maps out the shape of his cock with her hand, adapting her fingers down the length and, more loosely and self-consciously, fitting her palm to his balls for just a moment.

"You okay?" Ezra asks, looking at her face, and his voice sounds strained enough that she feels all the embarrassment vanish from her bones. She's fine. It's Ezra. She trusts Ezra—she's never trusted anyone enough to allow their hands down her pants, let alone want them there, and she's pretty desperate to feel Ezra's fingers inside her, desperate for him to touch her. That's got to count for something.

"Yeah," she says, smiling, and blurts out, "Can I blow you?"

He blinks at her. "I—I guess, are you—"

"Do _not_ ask me if I'm sure," she warns, and slides off the couch to kneel between his legs. He props himself up on his hands to make it easier for her to yank his pants down, and she leans in to mouth along his cock through his boxers, eyes closed, experimentally. She's always thought it is ridiculous, the way people sometimes close their eyes like that makes them invisible, but damn if it doesn't help right now.

The fabric is warm, a little damp around the head of Ezra's cock, and it feels—it feels like something she can do, taking him in his mouth, tasting him. By the time she pulls back and drags his boxers down, she's even curious.

She's not sure where the staring comes from, though. Probably that she's never been this close to a guy's dick before, not at eye level, anyway. She sets her sweaty palms on his thighs for leverage, and that's when she notices how tight his body is, how hard his hands are holding onto the edges of the couch cushions, how intensely he's _looking_ at her, full of focus and heat and something she doesn't like as much, something like anxiety sombering down his expression, his beautiful cheeks, his half-open mouth.

"What's wrong?" she asks, without meaning to. It's such a perfect opportunity for him to back out. She regrets asking as soon as the words are out.

"Nothing—nothing's wrong," he says, shaking his head. "Just having a moment here. Weird moment. You ever get creeped out by how hot you find it that there's a girl kneeling down between your legs and outright _staring_ at your—"

"No," Aria says, smirking, "no, I can't say that's ever happened to me."

Ezra laughs, soft. "Right," he says, "obviously," and a small smile blooms on his face as she tries to contain a giggle. It would really not be good for anyone if she started giggling like a—like a schoolgirl or something.

She strokes his thighs. "I have no idea what I'm doing," she says to sober up. Works like a charm. "That's why I'm staring."

"Oh, god," Ezra says, expression reverting to worry, "you don't—this is not at all what I was expecting would happen, here. Seriously. At all. You don't have to—"

"Okay, I know that," Aria interrupts, "stop acting like—" _Like you need to protect me._ "I know that, god, I just." She bites her lip hard and swipes her tongue over it. Ezra's eyes shut for a moment, and she takes the sudden surge of empowerment that makes her feel to drag her hands up his thighs and lean in to touch her tongue to his cockhead, swirl it around tentatively and lick her lips. It's not bad. It's probably an acquired taste, and she's not—crazy about it or anything, but she still wants to suck him off, wants it even more than before. It's interesting, she guesses, not to mention how the mere concept of doing this is consistently driving her crazy. "I want to," she says, looking at him until he meets her eyes, holding his gaze as she takes him in her mouth as far as she can.

He runs his fingers through his hair and lets his head drop back, and she smiles and swallows around him. It makes his hips jerk under her hands, and she keeps her hands firm there after that, letting the pressured guide the pace of her mouth. It's not a terrible blowjob, she doesn't think. She doesn't gag and she doesn't slobber and she doesn't accidentally graze him wth her teeth or anything. She even manages to slide her mouth up and down regularly at points, once she gets used to the weight on her tongue, the taste, the heat.

It's probably not great, either, but she has a pretty awesome excuse, and he reacts to what she's doing beautifully, all hitched breath and escaped moans and muscles tensing under her grip. She thinks he's even more embarrassed than she's been all night when he sets a hand on her head and says, "I'll—warn you, okay?" and she makes an acknowledging noise with her nose. He makes good on his promise—she pulls off when he tugs lightly at her hair, getting back on the couch and finishing him off with her hand.

She doesn't even notice how sore her jaw is until after he comes over her fist, until she's wiped her hand on his discarded t-shirt and he drags her onto his lap to kiss her.

"I feel kind of bad now," he says apologetically, kicking off his clothes, but there's still a smile behind it all.

She lets out a puff of laughter. "You look crestfallen, you really do," she says, nipping at his neck, letting herself get distracted from his hands on her waist and lower, and then one of them tracing her stomach before popping the button of her shorts and disappearing inside. It's possible she whimpers at the sudden invasion, the feel of Ezra's fingers, of fingers not her own spreading her out, slicking her up with her own wetness.

It's possible she's not ready for it, at this particular moment, but in that way where all she wants to do about it is bury her head in Ezra's shoulder and murmur incoherences as she pushes her hips up into his hand, seeking friction on her clit when he slips a finger inside her. It's a miracle she doesn't grab his hand to make him go faster. So she doesn't expect it, and she's not ready for it right away, but it's definitely not the lack of preparedness he's been scared of.

He slows down, and she whimpers again. "Maybe you could calm down," he suggests, soft in her ear. She can't tell if he's serious or joking.

"Maybe you should make me come already," she says, and lets her hips jerk freely from that moment, forcing him into a faster, more satisfying rhythm, making more noise than strictly necessary when he slides another finger in alongside the first and moves his free hand to the small of her back, down over her ass to push her shorts and panties down and hold her in place as he fucks her with his fingers. She stretches out her legs until her feet touch the arm of the couch and holds onto his shoulders, helping him along, helping herself along until the tension bundled in her stomach spreads over her legs and hips and chest, warm on her cheeks, and then she urges him to harden the pace of his fingers, groaning, "Come on, please," into his collarbone over and over, until her skin feels electric and her hips start twitching and she comes, long and slow, the kind of orgasm where she feels boneless afterwards, and like she's completely lost track of time, like she blacked out even though she didn't.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" she whispers, pulling up her shorts and relieving Ezra of her weight, half-sitting, half-lying next to him instead of on him. "But next time we should do this in your bed." She enjoys the sleepiness for a few moments—she can't really fall asleep right now or she'll be a mess in half an hour. She's not dumb enough to spend the night. Hanna would probably cover for her, but she doesn't want the judgment from her and she really shouldn't push it with Ezra. It's bad enough that she spends so much time in his apartment; she can't have people wondering where she's staying the night, too.

"You and I need to have a talk about ephemeral pleasures one of these days," Ezra says, rubbing his forehead with his forearm.

"You're being patronizing," Aria says. He told her to call him out on it, it's not like it's solely for her own benefit.

"I'm being self-deprecating," he points out. "And I need a shower before I can—drive you anywhere, or show you out, or even stay awake." He takes a considering look at her. "If you want to shower with me, I guess that wouldn't be crossing a line anymore," he says, but his face and tone aren't as straightforward: he doesn't look exactly opposed to the idea, but he doesn't look thrilled either, like he definitely sees it as a line they have yet to cross.

"No," Aria says. It's not about him, that answer; it's about her. "I think I want to leave that first for another time."


End file.
